


Hurricanes

by SamFuckingWinchester



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, F/M, Music, Photography, Touring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 20:19:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13015383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamFuckingWinchester/pseuds/SamFuckingWinchester
Summary: Jon Hoeg's daughter has one job -  to make it through the 5 Seconds of Summer North American Tour without incident and prove to her dad that she's taking the photography business seriously. Of course, she's never been the lucky type, and a certain blonde front man proves to make this simple task much more difficult.





	Hurricanes

**Author's Note:**

> I have a rule about writing about real people. But rules are meant to be broken, and this gem is the beginning of a college paper I wrote. Hope you enjoy.

If a lightning strike was a person, it would be Lucas Hemmings. With blonde hair just shy of “too long” and white, round sunglasses, there were moments when he unintentionally channeled Kurt Cobain, save the easy smile on his face. Much like a lightning strike he was a rare, fiery thing, only seeming to exist during chaos, sharp and terrifying if you got too close. He was the thing that separated man from nature, the fatal part of an electric current that made you keep your distance. And, much like a lightning strike, you were an unlucky bastard if you were struck once, but one in easily over a million if you happened to be struck twice.

Lucky is probably the last word in the dictionary to describe me.

Take, for example, the number of times I’ve fallen down the stairs today alone. The answer would be six, if you’re waiting on it. And I’ve been at this party, the one full of drunk C-list celebrities, for about two and a half hours without a hint of any excitement. It’s been two hours too many, but I’m sticking it out because when I tried to explain to Rory that it would be classy and sophisticated and I might meet Kendall-fucking-Jenner, she just laughed and rolled her eyes and wished me good luck. She knows I hate parties. I have a million things I’d rather be doing, that I should be doing. Like preparing to spend my entire gap year on tour, for example. It turns out that when you’re not important (IE in the band) you can’t just stop and grab clothes and other necessities every other time the bus rolls to a stop. And who knows how many times we’ll actually stop?

My dad told me I needed to “get my shit together” last night and pack. But here I am, at a party with a bunch of reality has-beens, groupies, and him.

Lucas Robert Hemmings. The lighting strike. The terrible, unlucky thing.

He’s sitting on the other end of the red, velvet couch, an entire seat between us. I choose to look at it as a metaphor for the gap in our lives. Yes, we were sitting on the same couch, at the same party, but there would always be a wide berth. There will always be a time when he dances and I sit out. That’s something I learned from my dad; just because you travel with the boys doesn’t mean you’re in the band. Luke is, though. He plays the role of unassuming front-man well, all things considered. He appears to be just as bored as I am, though he’s chatting pleasantly with someone I don’t know, a model maybe. She’s skinny; too skinny. It makes me hungry to look at her. I think about getting up to leave. But I don’t. I just sit and watch the lighting bolt converse with the tree he’s about to set on fire.

She rubs his hand. Luke and I both flinch.

I uncross my legs and smooth my pants. They’re the nicest pair I have, too nice for this place. Rory’s coy smile flashes in my mind. We’re supposed to be best friends, but I suppose she falls more into the category of “frienemy”. In other words, she’s such a bitch that I can’t trust her as my wing-woman. The two times that I did she ended up fucking both of the hot prospects she’d picked out for me. At the same time I’m sure.

Like I said. Unlucky.

The couch weight shifts and without glancing over I assume Luke’s next victim has taken a seat between us. Another metaphor. I shut my eyes and rub my temples.

“I think we’re both a little over-dressed.” His voice is thick as honey, a Sydney accent catching on the word “both”. I turn and stare. His blue eyes are hazy, but focused on something behind me. I glance over my shoulder and only see a group of guys trying to make bubbles in their drinks with bendy straws. Luke smiles patiently when I turn back around. He smirks. “I’ve never actually had a girl do that to me before. I’m flattered,” he adds when he takes in my bewildered expression. I get it now. _I’m_ the tree.

“Do what?”

“Act like they’re shocked that I’m talking to them,” he says. I flush with embarrassment. His glasses are folded up, nestled in the top button of his shirt.

“Those make you look like Kurt Cobain,” I say, letting my eyes flicker down to his chest and back up to his eyes like the models do. It’s all a system, easy enough to figure out if you watch carefully. I’m not even truly sure why I’m playing along.

“These?” he clarifies, removing the glasses and then placing them on his face. It’s easier to look at him when I can’t see his eyes, I decide. I should probably get used to this. I’m going to be on the road with him for eight straight months. “It’s better to burn out than to fade away,” he sing-songs, doing a terrible American accent. I frown in disgust.

“Wow, classy. Suicide isn’t funny,” I say. I should be more careful, laugh at his jokes and maybe paw at his knee like a proper crazed fan. But he’s so easy to talk to that I nearly forget who he is. That’s dangerous.

Luke frowns too. “You’re not one of those sensitive ones, are you? You know, he’s been dead a while.”

“My mom committed suicide,” I mutter, gazing back out at the crowd, looking for something other than the singer next to me to focus my attention on. Maybe it’s better if I don’t like him. Rory said this would happen. But Rory is a jealous bitch, so I never really take anything she says seriously.

Luke takes off his glasses. “I’m sorry,” he says. I forget what he’s apologizing for. “We’re off to a great start, aren’t we?” I’m silent for another few seconds while I plan out what to do. I should get up and go home. I need to pack my clothes and all of the photography equipment. So why am I still sitting here? “I’m Luke,” he says.

“I know,” I reply. “My dad is photographing your band for the tour.” He sits back.

“Oh. You’re Jon’s daughter! He’s such a cool dude,” he says, and then seemingly backpedals, like he knows that he’s not going to score any points with me by talking about my dad. He’s not going to score, period. I’m not going to be the one going up in flames this time. “I’m really fucking this up, aren’t I?” I check my phone instead of replying. There’s not much to see; only a smart-ass remark from Rory about what a grand, wonderful time I’m having at this party, and where’s the selfie with Kendall? I sigh heavily. I think I finally have enough courage to get up and go “get my shit together”. I flash him a sympathetic smile.

“It’s not you,” I say in that way that all girls are supposed to say it, to take the blame off the guy even though it is him and I’m just being polite. He hasn’t necessarily done anything to me yet, but I’m not much of a risk-taker if we’re being honest. I see Luke’s bandmates approaching, their expressions curious, and prepare to make my exit. They are the thunder that rolls in, a way to tell you how far off the storm is. “I’ve got to pack is all. We leave early tomorrow, you know,” I continue like he doesn’t know. He smiles, standing too. That draws the thunder closer. I see the Calum, the bassist, elbow Michael, the supporting guitarist. They both chuckle about something while glancing back and forth at the two of us and our close proximity. I’m not usually this paranoid, but I have a sinking suspicion they’re laughing at my expense. “I’ll see you,” I say, purely polite again, and walk off towards the exit.

“Wait!” I don’t turn, but Luke catches me anyway. His touch is electric. I yank my arm away like he’s burned me.“Let me drive you home,” he says, his breath hot in my ear.

“Why?” I wonder, making a face. He doesn’t even know my name. He shrugs. Also, I’m shitfaced. Dangerous.

“An excuse to get out of here,” he says simply. Bad idea, my head says. Really bad idea.

“Fine,” I mutter. I was going to call Rory for a ride; this would save me the embarrassment of admitting defeat, at least to her face. He smiles like I’ve just given him a million dollars. Not that he needs that, I think. I feel a shiver go up my spine as I think about what I’ve just talked myself into. He leads the way through the club, holding my hand mostly for necessity. At least that’s what I tell myself. The absolutely worst possible outcome would be for me to puke or fall on my face, and I don’t plan on doing either.

I’m used to this part—trailing celebrity like I belong without actually getting sucked in. It’s what I’ve been doing since I could talk. My dad was always clear about the line drawn between him and the people he worked with; _for_ , rather. He photographs cool people doing cool things. (That’s his slogan, actually.) But he’s not one of them, one of the cool people. He’s just Jon. Or Dad. Or Loser. Whichever, depending on my mood.

We walk out to the parking lot. It’s a dark night in Los Angeles. I speed up, feeling thankful I’m in some kind of shoes that I can run in, should the need arise. Normally I’m comfortable enough just being with another person, but I’m pretty sure Luke is too drunk to be much help in a fight. In any case, it’ll probably end up being me that defends him. Still, we walk a little closer together. He doesn’t notice; why would he? He’s a man.

He stops right in front of a black sports car, shiny even in the dark. I hold back my grimace when I notice the model. Of course he drives a Tesla. I sigh heavily and he glances at me curiously. I don’t have to pretend not to be impressed, which is a pleasant surprise.

“Are you okay to drive?” I ask as he walks to my side and unlocks the door for me. He beams like he thought I might ask.

“Totally,” he says earnestly. “And if I’m not, this thing will drive itself,” he adds, chuckling. I can’t tell if he’s serious and don’t care to. I just flip my hair and step into the cab like I’ve done it a million times. (I haven’t.) It’s warm and smells like liquor. I shiver again. Luke climbs in and the car hums to life like a dog that’s been waiting for its master. I grimace and fold my hands in my lap. He doesn’t even look at me as he pulls out and speeds off down the street. I guess he’s done trying to impress me. I _really_ hope he’s not too drunk. My dad would kill me if I died in Lucas Hemmings’ car.

“Where do you live?” he asks.

“Glendale.” I rattle off an address and he pulls off the highway. Driving in Los Angeles at night always gives me a headache. The car makes it feel like we’re barley moving even though the dashboard says we’re going seventy-five. I close my eyes and wait for him to find the street.

He pulls up to the condos, stacked on top of each other like boxes, and cuts the engine. I know I’m supposed to thank him and get out of the car, but my legs won’t move. Finally he asks me if I’m okay. “Thanks for the ride,” I finally manage.

It sounds a little snotty, so I flash him a smile. He returns it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Probably.” Not. I intend to avoid him for as long as I can possibly manage. I shut the car door and hurry up to the porch steps, even though I have a feeling he’s not going to pull out until I get inside.

I’m right. The Tesla idles in the street for about three minutes before I shut the curtains. When I glance back it’s gone.


End file.
